


221B Hobbiton

by Dorkangel



Category: Sherlock (TV), The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Crossover, Gen, Hobbitlock, Homeless Dwarves, Homeless Network, One Shot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-17
Updated: 2014-05-17
Packaged: 2018-01-25 12:06:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 991
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1648043
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dorkangel/pseuds/Dorkangel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dr John H. Watson was sitting perfectly peacefully in the living room of 221B Baker Street, drinking tea and about to order a pizza, when the doorbell rang.<br/>And a whole load of Sherlock's homeless network showed up.<br/>On a quest or something, with a certain 'Mr Oakenshield' in charge.<br/>Nothing John would ever get involved in.<br/>Right?</p>
            </blockquote>





	221B Hobbiton

**Author's Note:**

> 221B, Hobbiton.  
> I am writing too much at once!! Stop it!! The descriptions just kind of write themselves, don't kill me. That's just how I imagined modern hobo dwarves.  
>  No, this is not canon-compliment. No, I have no idea when it takes place. Yes, the names are odd but no one notices. No, I won't continue it. Byeee!

Dr John H. Watson was sitting perfectly peacefully in the living room of 221B Baker Street, drinking tea and about to order a pizza, when the doorbell rang.  
Well, the buzzer from outside came up to his flat.  
Confused, he jogged down the stairs, wondering who on earth would be at his door at this hour, and hoping like hell that it wasn't one of Sherlock's friends.  
Hope is a wonderful thing.  
But in this case, futile.  
The door was opened to reveal a massive, partially bald, partially bearded man somewhere vicious between about thirty and about fifty five. "Dwalin." he said gruffly. "I'm here for the gathering."  
"Gatheri- there's not going to be any 'gathering' here."  
Dwalin's eyebrows raised, unimpressed, and he uncrossed his arms to reveal a whole other multitude of tattoos and scars, as well as showing the ragged and dirty nature of his clothes. A small, tiny, improbable suspicion began to grow in the back of John's mind... but then Dwalin pushed past him, into the apartment building. "There any food? He said there'd be food."  
"He?!" John first yelped curiously, then sighed. "Sherlock."  
The suspicion had, in the time taken to climb the stairs, grown into a fully fledged conspiracy theory. This man HAD to be one of Sherlock's homeless network. John sighed again. "Wait here, I'll sort something." Walking into the kitchen, cradling his head in his hands and thinking frantically about what he could do, he heard another 'buzzzzz' from the equivalent of the doorbell.  
He stepped gingerly back into the living room, tentatively daring to wish he'd imagined it, but then Dwalin looked up and grinned. "That'll be the door." he laughed smugly.  
"Yes, thank you, I heard." John's words were, as per usual, laced with an irritated but well-meaning sarcasm.

This time it was an old man. He was wearing a beanie and fingerless gloves in traditional homeless person get-up, but smiling with a twinkle in his eyes. "Good evening!" he chirruped cheerfully. "My name is Balin."  
"Uh...good evening." The old man looked around him thoughtfully. "Actually, I think it could rain later, don't you?"  
Without waiting for an answer, he stepped past John and into the building, nodding to a confused looking Mrs Hudson.  
"Ah, can I just say, umm...Balin... I wasn't really expecting people over-"  
"Brother!" called Dwalin from the couch, interrupting John's frustrated, nervous monologue. "God, you're even shorter than last time."  
Balin shook his head in mock incredulity. "You must be taller, Dwalin."  
They settled like that, John hanging around the door awkwardly, with their hands on each other's shoulders.  
And then they bashed their heads together with sudden and apparently spontaneous violence, making their poor host jump.  
For a moment he fumbled, confused, seriously considering punching something.  
And then the doorbell-thingy rang AGAIN.  
With copious amounts of dread, he opened the door to a pair of hoodie wearing teenagers.  
"Fili and Kili," they announced in unison. "Here for Mr Holmes."  
"No, no thank you, you must have come to the wrong house-"  
"What?!" cried the younger of the two, a youth with dark hair and a darker blue hoodie. Or it might have just been dirtier.  
"No one told us." added the other sceptically. He was clearly older, and blonde, with a pale blue hoodie. Both of them had tangled, wild-looking long hair.  
"Has it been cancelled?" finished the younger in clearly some distress.   
"No! Nothing's been cancelled, I just-"  
"Well, that's a relief." They both barged in, just as Dwalin and Balin had done, looking around appraisingly. "Nice place you got here." said the little one, and the older one got two empty(ish) beer bottles out of his worn backpack and put them down on a coffee table. "Careful with them," he explained. "They're important."  
At that, both of them began to ascend the stairs, pausing only when John called after them.  
"Wait, which one of you is Kili and which one's Fili?"  
"I'm Kili," said the dark one.  
"And I'm Fili." said the other, and they both sprinted the rest of the way of the way up the stairs. All John heard before the door to his own flat slammed again was a delighted greeting of 'Mr Dwalin!' from Kili, and then nothing.  
He sat down next to the two dubious looking beer bottles, on the table, and closed his eyes for a moment.  
What the hell was going on?

And then the doorbell rang for a fourth time.  
"No! No thank you!" he yelled, but there was a great amount if talking from outside drowning him out, and then the sound of a key in a lock. It was Sherlock, being followed by seven more homeless people.  
"Ah. Hello John." he said, smiling in his particularly guilty way. In fairness, all his smiles looked guilty. "Ooh, Sherlock. You are so dead." he hissed at his flatmate as the other men marched up the stairs.  
"Oh right!" shouted a voice from the top of the steps. It was Fili. "You must be Doctor Witson!"

And two hours later, 221B a thorough mess, John was surprised to discover that they were discussing ways of catching Moriarty. The mastermind had, apparently, done some wrong by all of them.  
The bell rang for a final time and every single one of them fell silent. Sherlock rose calmly and walked to open the door, followed by a cautious Kili and Fili, who were followed by pretty much everyone else.  
"Mr Oakenshield," greeted Sherlock, receiving a "Mr Holmes" in return.  
"Uncle." murmured Kili and/or Fili, and John still didn't move to look at who the newest guest might be until he heard Sherlock calling him. "John. This is the leader of our...enterprise."  
So he rounded the corner, descended halfway down the stairs, looked at the doorway and stopped, unbelieving. He recognised this man from his army days, and breathed out the words.  
"Captain Thorin Oakenshield."


End file.
